April 18, 1992

It's not that Meg has forgotten about Milliways (because how could she), or not noticed that the door hasn't popped up in a while (because she might be incredibly busy, but she's not that busy).

And it's not she's not a little worried about that fact, or that she doesn't miss people there.

But it is a thing she can neither change nor control, and she is incredibly busy, and so it's also not a thing she spends too much time dwelling on or fretting over.

And maybe . . . maybe it's not an all bad thing that she hasn't been traipsing off to end of the universe and beyond these last few months. Maybe her first year of medical school, his somewhat-more-than-full-time job, their fundamental (though not incompatible) differences in personality, only quasi-integratable family traditions, an overabundance of well-meaning but not always helpful in-laws, and a somewhat constant discovery of oh, marriage involves this, too? is enough to be navigating.

It's a lot to be figuring out, really, and it's not like they have a whole lot to compare it all to. They're really the first of their friends to get married, and while they both have lovely examples in their parents' marriages, those are things they observed only when they rather more settled into. And even though Meg can talk to her mother -- and does -- about getting married young and to a man from a completely different cultural tradition, it's only so much help. Different era, different problems, different details, and in a lot of ways, different stages of their lives. Deidre Ford up and moved to a place she'd never even visited and didn't know a soul, and spent much of her first year of marriage pregnant and dealing with a newborn. Meg has lived in Montreal four years and has her own friends, and while kids are in the plan for the future, there's no immediacy to that plan. At all.

Besides, John Ford had come to his marriage unencumbered with other relatives. Alain has so many that Meg is still working on getting their names straight. (And it's quite clear sometimes that not all of them know exactly what to make of his tiny, red-headed, Anglo wife.)

And maybe that's enough to be sorting out (and they are sorting it out) without adding the strain of her visits to a place that he has never been entirely comfortable about the existence of. Maybe, sometimes, the universe actually does know when you've got enough on your plate for the moment, and nothing else needs to be added.

The same, alas, cannot always be said of husbands.

"You want to throw a party?" Meg asks, staring across the breakfast table at him on Saturday when they've both managed to carve out the same few hours free of schoolwork, homework, housework, assorted other kinds of work, and relatives. "Next week?"

"'Party' is too formal," Alain says. "I'm thinking more like a . . . "

"Gathering? Event? Get-together? Affair? Shindig?" Meg offers.

"Shindig? That can't be a real word. Even in English."

"It is," Meg says.

"Shindig," Alain repeats, thoughtfully. "I like it. Is there any more toast?"

"There's more bread," Meg says. "But it hasn't been toasted. Or was that meant to be a subtle request that I make you more toast?"

"You're better at it than I am, ma belle."

"It's toast, honey. You just push the button." But she gets up and goes to the toaster, anyway.

"It tastes better when you make it," Alain says. "Thank you. So I think we should have a shindig."

"Why?" Meg asks.

"I just think it would be fun. And helpful."

"Helpful? To whom?"

"Your friends, of course."

Meg blinks. "Okay, I think this might be one of those times when you're following up on a previous conversation we didn't actually have."

They've both done it -- turned I meant to talk to you about into didn't I talk to you about?

Alain stares up at the ceiling in that way he has when he's reflecting on things, until the toast pops up to break the brief silence. "I think you're right," he says.

Meg sets the plate of fresh toast on the table and takes her seat again. "All right, so why do you think it would help my friends if we have a party?"

"Well, they're trying to learn French, yes?"

"Yes." McGill might teach its classes in English, but it requires its medical students to at least be reasonably capable of having a conversation with the Francophone patients they will encounter once they're in Quebec hospitals. For Meg, this is mostly a matter of needing to learn some of the more technical medical vocabulary. Some of her classmates, on the other hand, are still mastering present tense irregular verbs.

"And how did you learn French?" Alain asks, slathering what seems to Meg to be a slightly disgusting amount of marmalade on his toast.

"In high school," Meg says.

Alain waves his hand (and marmalade knife) expansively. "Non. You didn't really speak French when we met."

"Of course I did."

"Not really," Alain says. "You spoke French like a very bright girl who had studied it in high school in Ontario. Your French got better after you met me, because then you were having real conversations in French."

"And you get credit for that, I suppose."

"Of course. The same way you get credit for the fact that my English is better than it was four years ago."

"I guess that's fair," Meg says.

"Right. So that's what we'll do. We'll have your friends over and my friends over and we'll have everyone speaking French and it should help your friends."

Meg studies her husband across the table for a very long moment.

"I'm not saying it's a bad idea," she says finally, "though I'm also not saying it's a good idea. That partly depends on why you're really suggesting it. Because it's a nice idea, helping my friends with their French, but you wouldn't throw a party for it. And we've got another year before anyone has to be conversational in French, so there's no rush. So what's up here?"

Alain eats half a piece of toast before he admits, "I might think Luc should meet your friend Heidi."

"Heidi? And Luc? Really?"

"Yes. We like Heidi, don't we?"

"Of course. Heidi's very nice. But, Alain, Heidi makes me look . . . "

"Tall?"

"Well, there's that. But I was going to say haphazard."

"There is not a force on Earth that makes you look haphazard, ma belle."

"All right, that might be a bit of an overstatement. But Heidi's very . . . serious. And that's not a bad thing, it's actually a good thing for a person who wants to be heart surgeon, but I don't really think she's the right person to try to set up with your artistic actor brother."

Actually, Meg doesn't think they should be trying to set Luc up with anyone. For that matter, she doesn't think they should be trying to set Heidi up with anyone. And especially not with each other.

"He needs someone serious. He hasn't had a proper girlfriend since Nathalie. And that was more than a year ago."

"I really don't think he's ready for someone . . . " Meg trails off and sighs. "Okay, fine. But when he gets upset about this, it was your idea. I was just the girl making the toast."

"He won't get upset."

"You know him better than I do," Meg says. But she thinks she's right about this. "Also, I do not have time to plan a party, or a shindig, or whatever it is you want to have. I'm busy with the nervous system this month. So I will invite Heidi and some other people, but the preparations are all on you, Alain."

"I can handle putting a shindig together."

"All right," Meg says.

"You'll see, ma belle."

"I guess I will, yes," Meg says.

"Do we have any more eggs?"

"In the refrigertor. And don't think that's going to work twice in one morning."